#AmericanWriters
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay—
I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the w… My soul has grown deep like the ri… I bathed in the Euphrates when da… I built my hut near the Congo and…
been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done
You and your whole race. Look down upon the town in which y… And be ashamed. Look down upon white folks And upon yourselves
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
My old mule, He’s gota grin on his face. He’s been a mule so long He’s forgotten about his race. I’m like that old mule —
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
The census man, The day he came round, Wanted my name To put it down. I said, Johnson,
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
I got to leave this town. It’s a lonesome place. Got to leave this town cause It’s a lonesome place. A po’, po’ boy can’t
You sicken me with lies, With truthful lies. And with your pious faces. And your wide, out—stretched, mock—welcome, Christian hands.
